Chapter 40

Conley watched from a crowded sidewalk still wet from the first rainstorm of April. Mazzarelli was waiting to cross Cambridge Street, the four-lane racetrack that fed Boston’s busy downtown. The tips of Mazzarelli’s Oxfords aligned perfectly with the edge of the curb. Pedestrians gathered beside him.

One Central Plaza loomed above, a long, sweeping, macaroni elbow of a building whose curved design allowed a panoramic view of City Hall and Government Center. Perfect place for Boston’s FBI Headquarters.

The pedestrian signal flashed WALK in bright white letters and Mazzarelli meandered onto the street with the crowd, parading in front of idling cars and trucks. He passed skyscrapers, swinging his leather briefcase in the crisp morning, nearing the wide steps to City Hall Plaza. Conley stepped out from behind a concrete wall next to the staircase and fell into lockstep.

The briefcase stopped swinging

“Conley, what are you doing here?”

“Spying on you, Mazzarelli.”

Mazzarelli looked back over his shoulder at FBI Headquarters, head pecking like a pigeon’s as he counted up six floors and scanned the long row of curved windows.

“They’ll see us. We’re out of this now. The feds have taken over the Diaz and Rodriguez investigations. The EFF-BEE-EYE, Conley.”

“It’s Friday. You’ve been up there all week. What did you learn from them?”

“Nothing,” he said, banking left between parked cars and dashing across the street ahead of a swarm of traffic. Conley tried to follow, but speeding cars blocked him. The swoosh of traffic blew his hair back, ruffled his clothes, and watered his eyes with high-octane exhaust.

Mazzarelli hopped onto the sidewalk across the street and hurried past restaurants and souvenir shops. Quincy Market was just ahead.

Sheila Thompson stepped beside him and matched his lope.

“Mazzarelli, how’s Channary?”

Mazzarelli almost stumbled, and looked back at the building again.

“You’re not supposed to be doing this,” he hissed.

“Neither are the feds,” Conley said, catching up. “Tell me, Mazzarelli. What are they up to?”

Mazzarelli started off again, but they were faster, cutting him off, working together like tugboats slowing a ship. Conley and Thompson got in front of him and blocked his way. Two faces spoke one question after another like a very persistent Siamese twin.

“What’s their next step, Maz?”

“Who are they questioning?”

“Is Channary okay?”

“Did they arrest Desh?”

“Listen,” Mazzarelli said. “A congressman’s been accused of child trafficking and now he’s dead. The FBI has jurisdiction. They impounded my case files.”

“And they couldn’t care less about who murdered Lloyd,” Conley said.

Thompson leaned into Mazzarelli’s space.

“So you’re telling us you just spent three hours with the FBI and you know nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.”

A horn blared behind them on Clarendon Street. She held her place, warm breath steaming like a locomotive, bright brown eyes locked on his.

Mazzarelli adjusted his glasses and sunlight glinted.

“I wouldn’t say nothing.”

****

That night at Morgan’s Tap, Conley tapped his fingers on William O’Neil’s desk. Mazzarelli was on the other side sorting a stack of paper. Sage paced behind them, listening.

“The FBI finished interrogations,” Mazzarelli said. “They capture the data on these forms—FD 302s. They’re not transcripts. They’re summaries.”

“How’d you get them?” Stefanos asked.

“The FBI Information Management Assistant left them in the copy room.”

“You made illegal copies of a federal investigation?”

Mazzarelli sat straight and adjusted his tie.

“I did.”

Stefanos nodded, smiled, and turned to Thompson and Conley. “Read through these. Look for inconsistencies. Look for Lloyd’s killer.”

Mazzarelli removed the top one and handed it to Thompson. The thickest one went to Stefanos, the third to Conley.

Conley and Thompson sank into the leather couch. Stefanos chose the hard chair next to the desk.

The room was quiet, but sounds from the bar seeped through the door. Glasses and bottles clacked. Voices chattered, chairs and tables clattered across the wood floor. Stale, pungent cigarette smoke drifted inside like a curious mist.

Conley read.

Raul Desh.

The landlord from Winston Place told his life story with emphasis on the trials and tribulations of owning a six-family in a city of immigrants, poverty, and crime. Leaky pipes, finicky furnaces, and holey roofs. Vandals, bums, and neighborhood punks haunted his days and sleepless nights. India didn’t seem so bad after a few years toiling in Ocean Park. If he wanted to make a few extra bucks for an illegal apartment in his basement, where was the harm?

Where was the harm?

Conley read the last page and looked up. Thompson had finished her file. They waited like kids after an exam, and when Stefanos finally lifted his head, Mazzarelli said, “Switch.”

Thompson handed him…

Channary.

He imagined her smiling brightly, sitting at a big table, and answering questions from serious guys in suits. Plain, simple, and honest, that was Channary. They asked her questions and she told them answers, answers with a little extra, innocent observations and feelings from someone who, despite what she had been through, still thought the world was a good place.

She remembered a sleepy journey with strangers, a boat trip in the middle of the night. The air was cold, and waves wet her clothes and made her freeze. Then a quick car ride to her basement apartment, and weeks spent with Aunt Maly and the funny Mister Desh. Wind blew through dirty cellar windows. The noisy furnace smelled like a wet, smoky fire.

The report ended with her questions to the FBI—“Where’s Conley? Is Kendricks all right?”

Conley sat back and fought tears.

Sage left, but soon came back with Teddy, who carried a tray of white mugs of black coffee. He wore a pained smile; a grimace that looked like it might break his face. He kept his head down, laid the oval tray on the edge of the desk, and backed out of the office like a manservant.

They took cups and traded stacks.

Last folder…

Samay.

High school dropout. Father unknown, mother living in Newport Beach. The Aunties took care of him too. Talented soccer player at Ocean Park High who might have won a ticket to higher education had it not been for a truancy record as fat as a phone book. Samay was between jobs, mostly crewing on lobster boats, day work that was hard, low-paying, and sporadic.

Conley read the meager background and flipped to an appendix, Samay’s statement to Mazzarelli that led to Raul Desh’s basement.

He finished the short report and re-read it, then dropped the folder on the floor and took Channary’s file from Thompson. He ruffled through the pages and pulled one out of the pile.

The others stopped reading, watched, and waited. Conley spoke.

“Samay says he spotted Channary in a 7-11 in McDonough Square and followed her to Desh’s house.”

He held the two sheets in the air.

“Channary said she never left the basement.”

Glass tinkled in the bar. Voices murmured.

“So who’s telling the truth?” Mazzarelli said.

“Channary, that’s who,” Conley said, making eye contact with each of them, like a prosecutor coaxing a jury. “Why would she lie?”

****

When they were done, Mazzarelli gathered the folders, straightened their contents, and fit them carefully into his briefcase. Thompson and Stefanos filed out of the office behind him. Sage placed her palm on Conley’s chest and told him to wait.

She walked behind the desk and opened the bottom drawer. It slid easily, scraping along the metal track, echoing hollowness. She did the same with the others, one by one, pulled them back and pushed them forward, her eyes on his. Conley glanced past her and noticed William’s framed pictures were missing and the desktop was clear.

“William’s gone,” she said.

“Where?”

She closed the last drawer and turned away. Tears welled. “I don’t know.”

Conley took her hand away from the pull and wrapped his arms around her.

“I’ll find him, I promise.”

She pushed him away.

“This obsession of yours took him from me,” she said. “It became his curse too. You brought this into our lives. I wish heʼd left you bleeding on the floor.”

“Sage, I’ll find William. In the meantime, I can’t find Lloyd’s killer without you. I need help.”

She placed her palms on her cheeks, dried her tears, and blew a long breath.

“At least he taught you that,” she said.